Aliyah Sokhodorva. Such a large name for the small woman on the man's arm. Her long dark hair was curled and tied at the name of her neck, a red flower in her hair to contrast the simple black dress she wore. She was uncomfortable at being at the parties her husband's friends hosted. So-called small affairs with fifty or sixty close friends in the brick townhouses, the hostesses charming and sexy while they entertained and prepared the meals. She walked into this one and felt it different - the music. Mozart. Not jazz, but a classic from her childhood.

She tried to listen to people speaking in fast-paced Russian and felt sorely left out. The former kitchen girl had never learned her husband's first language and found it difficult to understand what they were saying. She politely excused herself and went to find somewhere quiet to sit.

A young man had retrieved his fiddle and soon the young ladies and gentlemen had begun to dance vigorously. Ivan, the Russian sailor, tried to convince his wife to join and was dismayed with her response.

Soon nearly everyone was dancing, with the exception of modest Aliyah and some frail older folk. The rowdiness of jazz dancing was not for the young lady - she was a talented dancer, there was no doubt, but it came in the form of the waltz or foxtrot - certainly not the jitterbug.